One More Miracle
by OhMyScience
Summary: 100 days after Reichenbach. John returning from Tesco becomes less mundane when he receives a text from a certain consulting detective. I don't own this show, as Sherlock belongs to the wonderful BBC.


**One More Miracle**

_ "It's late at night and I can't sleep,_

_ Missing you just runs too deep,_

_ Oh, I can't breathe, thinking of your smile."_

_~Time for Miracles_

_Adam Lambert_

…

John walked back from the store, yet another boring trip out of his flat. He didn't do much besides eat, sleep, and go to his therapist. She kept suggesting he continue his blog after…

John shook the thought from his mind as he rounded the corner, closing in on his old flat. He had moved back into it after . . . _the incident,_ John forced himself to think. Surprisingly, it had still been available for rent after he had left 221b.

_100 days today,_ he thought. The army-worn hands shook from the memory as he tried to fish out his keys from his jacket. John shifted the Tesco bags to one arm as trying to fetch his keys proved difficult with them clutched in his hand. He finally retrieved them after several moments. John slid the key into the dead bolt, then the handle.

He trudged up the flight of stairs, setting the grocery bags down on the small table next to his laptop. Carefully, John moved his coffee mug, its contents now cold, to the side. He picked up a photograph that had not moved from its place on the table since it had been originally placed there; the only meaningful photo in his flat. John picked it up, smiling sadly.

In the picture, John stood beside Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective. It was a moment he would never forget, nor choose to. Sherlock's eyes sparkled with rare amusement, his lips actually turned up in a smile. John was smiling as well.

…

Sherlock had been in a relatively good mood that day, even opting for a bit of "goofing off". That may not have been the correct term, but for Sherlock it was goofing off nonetheless. He had stridden over to the stack of newspapers, where the deerstalker sat, forlorn. He eyed it for moment. He picked it up with his lithe fingers, turning it round and inspecting it, as if he were trying to deduce who was the murderer on a list of suspects. John sat on the couch, idly reading the paper. Glancing up, he saw Sherlock holding the hat. He suspected the look he was giving it was out of annoyance, and hoped he wasn't going to tack it to the wall with his pocket knife like the Cluedo board.

Suddenly Sherlock reached over, plopping the hat atop John's head.

…

John had laughed, Mrs. Hudson had laughed. Sherlock had been stifling laughter until John playfully smacked him with the newspaper. Mrs. Hudson then insisted she snap the photograph with her new camera. After some brief direction on how to operate a digital camera, she took the photo exclaiming, "Oh boys, wouldn't this be nice for a scrapbook?"

_I'll never give up on you, Sherlock._

John set the picture back down. He had surprised himself. He had remembered that and actually was a bit happier than he had been at the store. Yet again he had found himself yelling at those bloody chip and pin machines.

He shed his coat and started the task of putting away the few items he had purchased. A bag of crisps, eggs, another loaf of bread, cheese, ham, milk, and a few more snack items. John had just grabbed the liter of milk when he heard his phone buzz from where he had absentmindedly forgotten about it. He walked over to it, milk container still in hand. The lit screen announced he had one new text message. _Hope it's not Stamford again. _He unlocked his mobile, intending to ignore whoever it was. The text was only 3 words altogether:

**I'm not dead.**

** -SH**

The milk slipped from his hand as he did a double take. Was it a trick? No. No, Sherlock's phone had been left on the rooftop . . . it had never been collected. Could he have . . .? John stared at the text, those 3 words glaring back at him, intensified by the brightly lit screen.

"Sh-Sherlock," John mumbled, slumping onto the couch in disbelief. Emotions flooded him in an instant. He didn't know whether to be angry or sad or relieved . . . John rubbed his face in frustration. _How could this be possible?_

His phone buzzed again:

**221B.**

** -SH**

His eyes widened and his hands shook once more. The second time they had today . . . and his hands never shook, not even if he was facing death. But now?

He immediately stood up, hastily putting on his bomber jacket. John slipped the phone into the front pocket. He glanced at the milk where it lay partially busted open next to the couch.

_Sod it all._

And he went down to the street and hailed a cab.

…

_Damn cab. Couldn't it have driven any faster?_ John stepped out of the cab, 221B's black door directly in front of him. Quickly he went up to the familiar flat. He hadn't been there since he had packed up his belongings and moved out.

He entered the living room, noticing that Mrs. Hudson still didn't move a thing. Sherlock's equipment was still there, piled up on the kitchen table. Nothing had been touched after John had left the flat. Although, the dusting had been done recently. That much he could see.

"John," a deep baritone voice broke the silence. John turned, and there was Sherlock Holmes, sitting in his chair with hands pressed together as he always had done.


End file.
